


Autumn Leaves

by thattrainssailed



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Music, good old fashioned malec dancing really, more pretentious metaphors from yours truly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 00:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattrainssailed/pseuds/thattrainssailed
Summary: Magnus is warm like this. Their fronts are pressed together, clothing whispering as it slides together, but there’s nothing charged about it. Magnus’ face half-presses into the crook of Alec’s neck, his soft breaths puffing against the skin of his collarbone, chest rising and falling in exact rhythm with Alec’s. The cadence of his body draws Alec’s arms tighter around his waist, seeking to pull that calm tempo into himself, as though their closeness could unite them completely and keep them there for an eternity, another instrument in an arrangement of intimacy.





	Autumn Leaves

Magnus is warm like this. Their fronts are pressed together, clothing whispering as it slides together, but there’s nothing charged about it. Magnus’ face half-presses into the crook of Alec’s neck, his soft breaths puffing against the skin of his collarbone, chest rising and falling in exact rhythm with Alec’s. The cadence of his body draws Alec’s arms tighter around his waist, seeking to pull that calm tempo into himself, as though their closeness could unite them completely and keep them there for an eternity, another instrument in an arrangement of intimacy.

They sway together, held tight in one another’s arms. Alec’s never been much of a dancer, has always felt awkward and lack grace in anywhere but the battlefield. Magnus has cured that, little by little. He’s hardly going to be stealing the show on any dancefloors, but with Magnus he feels… centred. There’s a balance that he brings that steadies Alec. His feet are no longer clumsy, his hands no longer too big. There’s a melody to Magnus’ existence to which Alec can tune himself, a beat that he can focus on.

Magnus, of course, is delighted in Alec’s growing confidence in his own skin. He’s endlessly pleased whenever Alec shows comfort in his body, encourages the shadowhunter to find a rhythm to his own existence. Tonight had been particularly enthusiastic in that regard, with Magnus pulling Alec into the centre of the living room after dinner and flicking a hand towards the old-fashioned gramophone that sits in the corner. The records that sit neatly beside it seem to all be of a jazzy variety, smooth melodies filling the room as magic conducts them to automatically play and replace one another when their duty is over. At first, there had been some earnest attempts at teaching on Magnus’ part. He’d patiently instructed Alec on where to place his arms, how to move his feet, had somehow slowed the songs so they could go through the steps as a snail’s pace. Unfortunately, Alec is something of a useless student in this exercise, and Magnus could only hold in his giggles for so long before they came out in rapid staccato; Alec had attempted to control his own laughter and pulled away in mock-offence only for Magnus to cling to him, apologising breathlessly in between undignified snorts. Their hands had pulled at each other for a few moments, laughs mixing, until their arms ended up around one another, foreheads pressed together as they caught their breaths.

Alec has no idea how long they’ve remained that way, swaying in place. He’s faintly aware of a female singer crooning of autumn leaves in the mouth of the gramophone, but the music fades into white noise all too quickly. Their unhurried movements don’t match the record in any case. They are following something else entire, some other melody that only exists in the heat of their flush bodies. Alec suspects it’s a refrain that comes entirely from Magnus; yet as he presses his cheek against Magnus’ temple, he thinks that perhaps it isn’t just that. Neither of them is leading, their dance more of a partnership, movements that are undiscussed but still in perfect chorus. No, the song they follow is from Magnus, nor from Alec. It’s a duet of their very own, chords born from the rise and fall of their chests. Magnus’ breath against Alec’s skin is a melody, the light scratch of Alec’s facial hair against the warlock’s skin soft percussion. It’s a soft love song, conducted by their very bodies, the familiarity of the other’s presence. The lyrics sing every word they have every said to one another. They sway, and Alec finds a composition in their shared heat.

**Author's Note:**

> I do more writing over on [tumblr](https://thattrainssailed.tumblr.com/). Come yell at me.


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